Au troisième temps de la valse
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: The mind is a fickle, wondrous thing, capable of creation in one hand and destruction in the other. A series of short vignettes about all of the characters and incidents from before, during and after Inception.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **A series of ficlets I was inspired to write after seeing _Inception_. I had a series of prompts left over from a writing challenge a few months back (thanks to **Mira-Jade** for giving them to me!), so I decided to see what my Muse could create. There's no word limit to the ficlets - they could be as short as a few sentences, or a drabble (100 words), or maybe a bit longer than that. I'm rather enjoying the freedom and prosaic (and perhaps poetic) license that gives me. Don't mind the french - it keeps finding ways of weaving its way into here, it's such a pretty language!

I have 50 prompts, so expect five chapters with ten prompts each. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy this little creation of mine.

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**Au troisième temps de la valse**

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**"aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi"**

**01. Epitaph**

The mind of a child was a strange and wonderful thing. Just as a child never knew when he was dreaming, a child had no concept of death. And just like you could never quite remember the beginning of a dream, you could never remember the exact time when you realised that there was such a thing as death.

Cobb had died countless times in dreams; so many times, in fact, that it was if he had become impervious to the concept of death. The idea of it was always there in the back of his mind, but it was overshadowed, consumed by the spectacular world of dreams – until Mal died. Until she threw herself from that building, stealing herself away from him and their children, forcing him to run.

He couldn't attend her funeral, he couldn't see their children – so what was he now?

He had seen death and knew the tremendous folly lying in wait of those who pretended it did not exist.

**02. Asphyxiation**

Limbo was beautiful, an empty canvas for them to create whatever they wanted. Here in limbo, they were gods of their own world. It should have been glorious. It _was_ glorious.

But even glory faded over time, and eternity soon became a fate too horrible to behold.

**03. Minx**

Arthur had been left in charge of Ariadne's training, but he was convinced she didn't need it after their second trip into a dream space. The world she had created was a small castle in the Baroque style, set by a river. If you looked out a window, you could see for miles, straight to the horizon – but every window, no matter where it was positioned in the great castle, looked at the _same_ horizon. The corridors all doubled back on each other and no matter how many times you tried to leave, you always ended up back in the same spot.

"Satisfied yet?" she said, watching him contemplate the structural paradox.

He grinned. "Very. My head's spinning."

**04. Vitiate**

"Come on, that's enough, Eames," Arthur said, trying to snatch the beer away from his inebriated colleague.

"I work better drunk," Eames said, slurring his words and making a sloppy grab for the bottle.

"Yeah? And how well do you think Fischer's going to react when you show up as Miley Cyrus instead of Browning?"

Eames sniggered and then broke into heavy laughter.

Arthur rolled his eyes and downed the last of Eames' beer before the forger tried to reclaim it.

**05. Blemish**

The plan became flawed as soon as Saito was shot. Like the red stain seeping through his white shirt, all of their careful preparation had been torn and was now jeopardizing their lives. Even if they managed to get out of the dream world, Saito was at dangerous risk of falling into limbo and losing his mind down there… and that would be the end for Cobb. If Saito was lost, he would never see his children again.

Cobb looked at his crew, forcing himself to forget this thought for the moment: they would just have to continue on, no matter what happened.

**06. Knavery**

"I never meant for you to become a thief, Dom," Miles said as they walked through the streets of Paris.

"Miles, haven't we had this conversation one too many times?" Cobb said abruptly. "I do what I do because it's the only thing I know. It's the only skill I have. And if it means I have to walk a little on the wrong side of the law, then so be it."

Miles halted and observed his son-in-law carefully. "I'm not sure Mal would appreciate you saying that."

**07. Fumble**

The first time Arthur had attempted to set up a coordinated kick, it had gone quite badly. He had only managed to put one charge in place before projections broke in, stole the rest, and threw them into the rapidly flowing river outside the nearby window.

"Really smart, Arthur," Cobb said irritably as they dove behind a door for cover. "Congratulations on getting us into this mess."

"Weren't you the one who was supposed to be keeping them off my back?" Arthur retorted.

"No, that was Eames."

"Oh." Arthur peeked around the doorframe and immediately jumped back as a projection shot at him. "Where is he, then?"

"On the top level. He got shot."

"Oops."

"You're _not_ helping."

**08. Enact**

The mind was a sly thing. The first time Mal had burst through into the dream had been a punch to the gut, and he woke up thinking that she was still alive. Thankfully, she had not damaged their mission, but she had set in motion a problem that could never be fully resolved.

As soon as it happened once, he knew without doubt it could happen again. Even though he was well aware what she was capable of, he found himself wishing for her to show up just so he could catch a glimpse of her – charming and beautiful, just as he remembered her. Who cared if she destroyed their mission? She was alive again.

Seemingly.

And that was the beginning of his inability to dream without aid… and the start of his attempts to desperately re-live his regrets in order to fix them.

**09. Grotesque**

Since becoming an architect for dream worlds, Ariadne had found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her studies. Designing buildings for the real world just wasn't enough for her anymore. There was something dreadfully bland about it – and not just bland… simple. Simplicity. It was too easy now that she had stepped through a world of paradoxes where the laws of physics could be bent into whatever shape she desired.

To stave off her boredom in class, she kept a small sketchbook in her bag and she could frequently be found drawing in it during class. Professor Miles was the only one who did not interrupt her; her other teachers, however, took note. One day, Professor Delacroix demanded that she hand over the book, he took one look at the carefully interwoven mazes of her dreamscapes and told her strictly, with a disappointed look on his face: "It's time to take your mind out of the clouds, Ariadne. Wake up and stop dreaming, or you'll leave this program faster than you entered it."

In return, Ariadne could only nod and smile knowingly.

**10. Fever**

Cobb had learned much about the laws of construction within a dream world. He and Mal had spent years together exploring the possibilities with fearless abandon. However, this cavalier attitude towards their craft had put him in more than one difficult situation.

Mal had told him not to enter the dream world when he was ill. She had insisted that he rest and recover; there wasn't much he could do with a fever. He, however, had insisted just as much that he would be fine – if anything, they should take this opportunity to see whether or not it was possible to keep the dream world in place while sick.

It wasn't.

The dream collapsed almost as soon as they entered it and they were trapped; the experience was one they would never forget.

After all, it was the first time they had to kill each other in order to escape.


	2. Chapter 2

"**avec mes souvenirs, j'ai allumé le feu"**

**11. Pendulous**

There was a grandfather clock at the back of the room. It was a large, ornate thing, far too imposing to be considered fine or beautiful, but also far too majestic and regal to be considered ugly. Squeezed between two washed-out, crumbling bookcases that looked like quivering bodyguards, it glared out at the room, its golden pendulum swinging back and forth with a powerful resolve.

It was also the only thing Arthur could see from his current position, lying prostrate on the floor, inhaling the clouds of dust that ballooned outwards from the moth-eaten Persian rug every time he so much as flinched. One of his captors was pressing a booted foot into his back, screaming at him in Japanese.

"No. _No,"_ he said, inhaling sharply as pain shot through his back. "I don't know where it is, stop asking—"

He froze. The clock's pendulum had stopped moving – only it was dangling somewhere along the path of its upward swing.

Arthur grinned and tried to muffle his laughter. His captor apparently did not take his sudden amusement lightly; he was dragged roughly to his feet and immediately took a blow to his face. He staggered backwards across the room and collapsed in front of the clock.

"Feel free to shoot me," he said, staring up at his angry captors through watering eyes. He did not even bother to lift his hands in surrender. "It's not like I'm not used to the pain; and really, it's all fair game anyway."

**12. Deluge**

Phillipa knew her mother was dead.

She spent her days pretending that nothing had happened, that Mummy had merely gone away with Daddy, and she would see them again soon. She pretended so she wouldn't worry Grandpa and Grandma; she pretended so she wouldn't worry Jamie, who was much too young to understand. But she knew Mummy was not coming home ever again.

It made her sad. She cried at night, an endless stream of tears, but she never made a sound. She cried quietly and she couldn't stop until she finally felt like there were no tears left in her eyes. All she could do then was curl up under her blankets, shivering, and clutching the stuff toy dog Mummy had given her for her third birthday while she was surrounded by the stuffed animals Daddy kept sending her and Jamie. After a while, she would slip out of bed, walk to the bathroom and wash her face with cold water, removing the sticky trails of tears on her cheeks. Then she would crawl back into bed and pull the covers up to her neck. She would stare out her window at the stars and ask them to bring Daddy home. Sometimes she even saw a shooting star; she took that as a sign, and begged the stars even harder.

But some part of her mind wished the opposite, wished that Daddy wouldn't come home. If he really wanted to come home, why wouldn't he? He used to tell her that he would do anything for her. If that really were true, then he would be here right now.

**13. Withdrawal**

"Mal."

She was refusing to look at him, her eyes instead focusing on the windows behind him. The knife was still in her hands; she was gripping it tightly, her knuckles turning white, blood seeping out from under the blade where it was slicing through the skin of her left palm.

"Give me the knife, Mal."

She could see Phillipa and James through the window, playing, laughing, as children do. A happy bliss, a happy, ignorant bliss that was a fabrication of her own mind. They were what she wanted.

"Mal. Give me the knife."

What she wanted to see. But they weren't real; they couldn't be.

"Mal! You're—"

They were as much within her mind as this house was, and she had to escape. She could not live here anymore; if she remained, she would succumb to her own desires.

"Mal… Donne-moi le couteau."

Her desires were her greatest enemy, preventing her from escaping, preventing her from doing what needed to be done.

"_Mal! Écoute-moi, s'il te plaît!"_

She had to return to her children, her true children. She could not remain here as a mother to fabrications, no matter what her husband said.

"_Mallorie!"_

He wrenched the knife from her grasp and threw it on the table, out of reach, its silvery edge shimmering with a coat of her own blood. She could only stare ahead, gazing at her children-who-were-not-her-children, while he carefully inspected and gently cleaned her wounded hand.

**14. Blister**

Dom Cobb's photograph stared down at the room; though his image hardly seemed threatening, the real-life counterpart was something entirely different. The man had skills capable of bringing down empires; theirs, specifically, now he had failed them. Failed to breach Saito's mind and bring them what they need. Cobb and his team had failed, and, like the cowards they were, turned and fled.

"That's the trouble with men who work outside the law. You never know when they could jump ship to the highest-paying party."

"I was aware of the risks."

"It was foolish to hire him and his team. They have failed, and the information they could divulge to our enemies could be fatal."

"Then we will have them dealt with."

"Then do it. Or it will be your price to pay."

"How could I forget? You never give up the chance to remind me."

**15. Coal**

"So, Arthur," Ariadne said as she tipped a spoonful of sugar into her coffee and stirred it around, "how did you get dragged into this?"

"Me?" He shrugged and took a sip from his own cup – a very dark roast, so strong she could have sworn she would be able to smell it a mile off. Naturally, he drank it black.

"Yeah," Ariadne said, now reaching for the cream. "What could Cobb possibly say to convince a guy like you to get involved in something like this?"

"He took my lunch money in the third grade and never paid me back."

Ariadne raised an eyebrow. She stirred her sweetened coffee one more time and downed half of it in a mouthful. Arthur observed her with great interest.

"What?" she said, setting her cup back down.

He leaned back in his chair, still regarding her with curiosity. "The bigger question here, Ariadne," he said, "is how can you drink something like that _in Paris_?"

She finished her coffee in another gulp. "I'm Canadian." She plunked the cup down in front of her with definitive emphasis. "Two creams, two sugars – that's our rule. Thanks to Tim Hortons, we're a nation of sugared caffeine addicts."

**16. Kismet**

There was a time – he didn't know when, they had been in limbo for so long, for years uncountable – when he dared to ask her whether it was worth it. This research, this exploration, this journey into the human mind. Perhaps curiosity had gotten the better of them; perhaps they had been too greedy for knowledge. Perhaps this never-ending place was their God-given punishment for attempting to go where no one had gone before.

She had said nothing at first. She had smiled, even laughed a little, and ran her hands through his hair, clutching him to her. "Non… c'est magnifique. Je suis contente ici."

"Es-tu sûre?"

She pressed one hand to his cheek and kissed him softly. "We are our own Gods."

**17. Possession**

Robert Fischer had been trained to recognize when his subconscious was being invaded. When his training had first begun at the insistence of his father, he had brushed it off. It seemed silly and entirely ridiculous – who needed to protect their _dreams?_ He never dreamed. Or if he did dream, he never remembered it. The last time he remembered dreaming – and he could not actually recall the dream – he had been nine years old and received a sharp scolding from his father after waking up the entire household by screaming in his sleep while in the grip of a nightmare.

As a result, he had not been ready for the first true attack on his subconscious, and had not been fully aware of what was happening when it occurred. When a rival company countered his father's current plans, Robert realised that _he_ had been responsible for leaking the valuable information. The result? His father refused to speak to him for months, and Robert engaged in proper subconscious training.

A year or so later, another attack occurred, and he quickly repelled it. It was an amateur attempt to extract information, and easily dealt with. For once, Robert had a dream he remembered, possibly because of the moment he climbed to the top of a skyscraper and shouted: "You do _not_ control my own dreams!"

It had had a grandiose effect that would be ridiculous anywhere else, and he rather liked it.

His father, of course, would have been appalled.

**18. Plethora**

"_Non! Rien de rien… Non! Je ne regrette rien…"_

"Oi! Turn that bloody thing off, I can't concentrate!"

"As eloquent as always, Eames," Arthur said with a sigh. He looked up from his computer, from which Édith Piaf's voice was blaring, and observed a red-faced Eames with a certain blasé demeanour.

"_Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait…"_

Eames was lying on a lounge chair, grinding his teeth furiously. "I hate that song," he said, grunting into the paper folder he was holding several inches away from his face.

"Too bad," Arthur said, scanning the profile document he was currently analysing. "It's Cobb's favourite, and it never hurts to get it ingrained in your head."

"I don't need some damn French woman's voice in my head!"

"_Ni le mal..."_

"All right, that's enough!"

Eames tossed the folder aside; the papers scattered across the floor as he launched himself towards Arthur's desk and pulled the laptop's cord.

"Oh, thanks," Arthur said, continuing to read. "I needed to unplug it, it was completely charged."

"…_tout ça m'est bien égal…"_

Eames grunted and pushed down the computer screen, snapping the laptop closed. The music stopped.

Arthur rubbed his chin. "Satisfied?"

Eames was about to respond when Ariadne opened the door. She ignored Eames and Arthur, crossing the workplace absentmindedly, and went directly to her work station. She immediately plunked her iPod down on her desk and plugged it into a nearby set of speakers.

"_Non, rien de rien—"_

"BLOODY HELL!"

"_Non! Je ne regrette rien…"_

**19. Illicit**

A month or so after Inception – after she had received her share of the profits, after she had stared, dumbfounded, at the massive amount of money in her bank account, after she had called Arthur and dumbly asked him what anyone was supposed to do with that amount of money, after she had thought about reaching Saito and asking him if she had received the correct amount – Ariadne went to visit her parents. She was on break from her graduate studies any how, and it had been about a year since she had made the trek back to the good, old Maritimes to see her family.

They were pleased to see her, of course, despite that their last meeting had been less than pleasant. As they all remembered, there had been much yelling and shouting when her parents had inquired how she was going to continue to pay for her Parisian living expenses. They had assured her that there was the bleak reality that she would have to give up her studies in Paris and come home as they could certainly not support her, and she could barely support herself.

That, of course, was no longer going to be a problem.

"I kind of have a job," Ariadne said when her parents asked. "Or had a job. Have/had, take your pick."

"Pardon?" her mother said. "Do you or do you not have a job?"

"It was a kind of one-off thing, but they may ask me to do more."

"Designing?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "Oh, yeah. Lots of designing. I was designing away."

"Where?" her father asked.

She swallowed. "I can't really tell you, Dad."

"Good heavens, why not?"

"Well, it's kind of…" She wet her lower lip. "Um. Classified, I guess."

Her parents stared at her.

"What?" Ariadne exclaimed. "Do I seriously have to tell you _everything? _You should be happy that I have a job, not worrying about where my designs are going to be! It's not like you'd want to go see them anyway!"

**20. Cataclysm**

Stephen Miles was no stranger to disaster. He had frequently witnessed it in his youth. Human catastrophe, brought on by war, famine, a fear of the unknown – the progress of history had seen it all. But somehow, all of it seemed like such a distant thing when your own family was put on the line and torn apart through its own means.

He would never forgive himself for teaching Mal, for introducing her to the world of dreamscapes. She had been too young; she had been taken with it immediately, and never let go. Once she experienced the realm of the dream, she was intoxicated by its power, by the illusions it could create; she wanted to know more, wanted to explore. Stephen had introduced her, and she had learned to run before she could walk.

Even now, he could not decide whether the dream worlds had been worth it. It had been responsible for bringing his family more happiness than they had ever known. It had brought Mal to Dom, it had given Stephen his beloved grandchildren – but it had also taken Mal away. His daughter, his precious, beautiful girl, was gone, throwing herself away for the sake of the dream she could not escape.

To lose your child… to have your child take her own life… that was the true meaning of despair. And he thought that no matter what the dream worlds had given him, the price it demanded was too great for any number of fantastical worlds he had visited or created.

It was the ultimate fate of a creator. Eventually, your art consumed and destroyed that which was most precious to you.

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**A/N: **They never did say where Ariadne was from – so I decided to say she was Canadian (like her actress, Ellen Page). As a Canadian, it's fun to have more fictional Canadian characters out there, eh?


	3. Chapter 3

"**tout ça m'est bien égal"**

**21. Myth**

They said members of elite groups gravitated towards each other. No matter how small the group or how big the world, they would always manage to find each other. Perhaps it had something to do with the way they acted, or the way they surveyed a situation, or perhaps it was through some weird, inexplicable link, but those who dealt with dreams could always sight members of their particular trade.

That was why Dom and Mal were not particularly surprised when a stranger approached them at their table one night, having spotted them from across the bustling saloon. He sat down calmly beside them, casually tugging at his cuffs, and observed them frankly.

"I have heard of you two," he said in the clipped tones of a posh British accent. "In the right circles, you are acclaimed for the work you have done."

"I take it this is not a social call," Mal said.

"No," the stranger said. "No, it is decidedly not." Raising a hand, he signalled a passing waitress and received a glass of red wine. "I have a proposition for you," he said, taking a long sip. "A partnership of sorts."

"Is this partnership, strictly speaking, legal?" Dom said. "As you are probably aware, our trade has a habit of going in either direction."

The man set down his glass. "It depends. The work you and your partner—"

"Wife," Dom interrupted.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Congratulations. I had not heard." He took another sip of wine, his eyes focusing on the gold wedding band and twin engagement ring showcased on Mal's slender finger. "The work you and your wife have accomplished has stretched the limits on what can be accomplished in the world of extraction. But to think of what you could achieve if you worked in our field is extraordinary. We could push so much farther, find even greater secrets hidden in the human mind—"

"We are not thieves, monsieur," Mal interrupted. "I certainly did not learn my trade to have my methods abused by those seek only fame and fortune through idea theft for corporations."

The man swished his wine around in his glass. "Very well," he said, "I understand that you do not wish to be associated with those who work outside the law. But I am not asking you to participate in Extraction, I was merely suggesting—"

"We know what you were suggesting," Dom said. "Perhaps I should clarify. Either get to the point, or leave. We are not interested in being bribed to work for the most recent multimillion-dollar corporation to seek out trade secrets of their rival companies."

The man firmly set down his glass. "What do you know about Inception?" he asked.

Mal smiled. "You have come to us for _that?"_

"I merely want to know whether it is possible. As the leading experts on the subject, it is surely understandable to assume that you would have some kind of answer."

"I do have an answer," Mal said, rising to her feet, "and advice. It is a myth best left forgotten. A fairytale that can never come true – I wouldn't bother wasting my time with it. Goodnight, monsieur; perhaps you will find what you are looking for elsewhere."

**22. Dashing**

The tall, blonde woman bit gently into the chocolate-covered strawberry, her bright eyes laughing at him from across the table. "So, what kind of work _do_ you do?"

"Are you interested, love?"

"Let's just say I have a healthy dose of curiosity."

Eames leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Well, let's try to curb that, shall we?"

"Are you honestly not going to tell me?"

"A man needs to keep a little mystery about himself," he said, waving a hand casually. "Especially on the first date."

She giggled, and blushed a little under his direct gaze. Eames smiled to himself. Yes, she would be a perfect addition to his collection of disguises. There were some situations where an attractive woman with just a hint of intelligence behind the vapid smile would be exactly what he needed. After all, a man in his line of work needed all the disguises he could get – and if such a search got him a little extra on the side, it was all just part of business.

Working on the opposite side of the law certainly had its perks.

**23. Genteel**

Arthur was a conundrum, much like the mazes she had designed for the dreamscapes. Ariadne thought she understood people very well; usually when she met someone, she had them figured out within a week. Maybe that was the effect of growing up with psychologists, but Arthur threw her out of her usual loop. He had a very refined personality – one that was almost as refined as his taste in art and cuisine – but at the same time, he was just as comfortable at kidnapping a man at gunpoint as he was at attending art conferences.

Or so she supposed. Some of his conversations certainly made it seem like he went to art conferences. Then again, this was Paris – everyone went to art conferences. Walking down a _street_ was like attending an art conference.

Art conferences aside, it was just weird how easily he could jump from what she had mentally labelled as "action hero mode" to "classy, artsy businessman mode". She was also fairly certain that both "modes" were ingrained in him to the point where he didn't even know they were there.

"What's so funny?" Arthur asked, staring at her as he adjusted his tie.

Ariadne shook her head, bringing herself out of her thoughts. "Nothing. You just knocked someone out."

"Well – yeah. And?"

She spread her hands. "And that wasn't very gentlemanly of you."

He gave her a strange look. "Were you expecting me to be?"

**24. Wisp**

James could not remember his mother.

Try as he might, he could not remember her, even with every picture in the house to help. He knew what she looked like, of course. He knew she had brown hair and blue eyes. He knew she was French, that her favourite language was her native one, the one that Grandmother kept telling him he needed to use, but it was so hard to speak it at school when no one else understood.

(Maybe they needed to move to Canada? They lived in the United States of America – they always had – but they didn't speak French there. He had learned in Geography class that they spoke French in Canada, and Canada was not all that far away. Maybe they needed to go there – he could still have his friends here, but he could also speak French! He liked French. He liked how he sounded, he just never felt that he could use it here.)

James knew all sorts of little facts about his mother. Phillipa was always telling him about her. Phillipa was older, she remembered these things. But still, he couldn't remember the last time Mummy had hugged him, the last time Mummy had talked to him, the last time Mummy had tucked him into bed at night and sung him to sleep… Phillipa said she had done all these things, but he could not remember.

If he could not remember them, had they ever really happened?

Did he even have a mother?

The answer, like his memories of her, was not there in his mind.

**25. Ebony**

Dom loved to experiment. He loved pushing the boundaries, he loved taking risks. But sometimes, Mal feared that he could go to far. There were limits to the human mind, lines that should never be crossed. Dom always laughed whenever she mentioned the proverbial line – and then he always reminded her that lines were put in place to keep people in check, and there was never any reasons not to cross them to see what was on the other side.

No matter how hard she tried, he never seemed to grasp the idea that the other side could be dangerous.

"Dom?" she whispered.

"Yes?"

Mal quickly glanced around the corner. The projections were getting closer, their shouts and screams racing down the hall ahead of their thundering footfalls. "What happens if you are knocked out in a dream?"

"If you die in a dream, you wake up—"

"_Je sais_. But it is possible that they will not kill us." She took a deep breath. "What happens when you lose consciousness in a dream?"

He fell silent. "I don't know."

"_Dom."_

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "But we can always find out."

Mal sighed. _"Dom!"_

He kissed her forehead. "Stop worrying," he said. "They'll probably kill us and we'll wake up. Or, barring that, if we lose consciousness, they'll kill us and _then_ we'll wake up."

"Is it possible to descend to another level of dreaming?"

He looked at her. "A dream-within-a-dream?"

"Yes."

"I never thought of that."

A shot rang out, the sound blasting down the hall. Mal shrieked, and threw herself into his arms.

**26. Emblem**

There was always a sign that you were in a dream. Sometimes it took you longer to recognise it, but it was there. Something out of place, something impossible – a mixture of illusions and paradoxes that looked real when you first encountered them, then shifted into something else.

Arthur had hated them at first. Well, maybe "hated" was too strong of a word. He was unsettled by them. A paradox's existence gave off all kinds of wrongness that unnerved him; as a result, he shied away from them. His teacher, as his father, had always teased him about this trait. But his teacher, as his _teacher,_ reinforced the importance of getting over that little fear.

"A paradox isn't something to be feared, Arthur," he had said. "You can use them. Live with them. Breathe with them. Run with them. They're impossible things, and you should be thrilled that you can witness them."

"But they shouldn't be here!" he had protested. "They're… _impossible!" _Upon reflection, he thought that sometimes his fifteen-year-old mind could be so unbelievably slow.

"And?" his father had said. "Listen to me carefully. Lewis Carroll once wrote an amazing piece of advice, words that you should consider most seriously: 'Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.' Think about that, and you'll go far."

After that, Arthur never forgot his lessons about paradoxes.

**27. Odds**

Phillipa folded her arms as she leaned against the doorframe of her grandfather's study, glaring at him with a fierceness that should not be capable in a sixteen-year-old girl.

"You have to teach me."

"I said 'no,'" Miles replied wearily.

"Grandfather, there's no other way. Teach me. Please. I want to learn."

Miles turned a page, refusing to look up at her. He knew that if he did, he would give in. She had the same demeanour, the same fiery look in her eye that Mal did when _she_ had asked him all those years ago.

"Why should I?" Miles said after a moment, his eyes scanning the essay he was currently marking, even though he was not taking in any of the student's words. "After what this – this _profession_ has done to our family, I'm surprised that you still want to learn."

"I need to know and Dad won't teach me."

Miles looked up. Phillipa's blue eyes – frighteningly like her mother's – glared met his with an unwavering resolve.

"Dreams are not to be toyed with on a whim, Phillipa," Miles said, setting down his pen. "The human mind is a fragile thing—"

"I _know_ that."

"It is incredibly delicate, which makes it incredibly dangerous."

"I _know_ that." She took a deep breath. "But if you don't teach me, I'll find another way. I'm sure I can track down any number of people who work the field, and considering that most of them tend to be criminals – my own father included –"

"He never intended—"

"Grandfather, I'm not a child anymore," Phillipa said crossly. "I know what he did, and I know why. But that doesn't change the fact that he was, essentially, a thief and a wanted man for several years of my childhood. Most of his associates are still thieves. I could easily contact them for help. I'm sure they would be _thrilled_ to teach me."

Miles sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "You are as impossible as your mother."

**28. Aim**

It was something that was only supposed to happen in stories. The woman sees the man at a distance from across a crowded room; he turns, ever so slightly, and sees her for the first time; they both feel a connection, and move so slowly towards each other, meeting, speaking, knowing upon that first moment that they are destined for each other…

It had been like that for Mal. It had been what felt like years ago, at a special dinner held at the université where her father worked his day-job as an architecture professor. One of his students had been there – sitting far away from the swirling clouds of talkative guests, observing and watching, nodding and smiling when he was addressed, but never fully participating.

He had looked up; she had caught his eye. She smiled. He nodded.

And she promptly strode across the room, champagne glass in hand, to ask him why he did not wish to join the conversation.

"Qu'est-ce-que vous faites ici? Vous n'aimez pas des galas comme ceci?**"**

And he blushed, awkwardly stammered out a few words in French – "Je suis Américain, je ne parle pas le français si bien maintenant" – and she laughed.

"American," she said. "I could have guessed. Is Paris not treating you well?"

"I'm surviving. Culture-shock, I guess – happens to the best of us once we step outside the tourist zone. My French isn't nearly as good as I thought it was."

"Perhaps I can help you with that." She took a sip of champagne and extended her hand. "Mallorie Miles."

He took her hand and shook it. "Dominic Cobb." He paused. "You're Professor Miles daughter, right?"

"Yes."

"I knew it. He keeps talking about you."

She laughed. "I can believe it. My father has always been an overly talkative one."

They spent the rest of the evening talking. By the end of it, Mal knew that Dom was the one she wanted.

**29. Token**

_Tu as un choix, Mal._

There was something hidden deep within her childhood home. Something she had put there, something she had set aside, but she could not longer remember her purpose. Had it been for safekeeping? Had it been to forget? Either way, she could not remember. Whatever her motivations had been for putting it aside, it did not matter. What mattered was that she was staring it in the face, watching it spin and spin, and keep on spinning and spinning –

Was it supposed to spin? Spin without falling? Spin without toppling? Spin indefinitely, for the rest of time, while she was trapped her without a way out?

_Tu as un choix, Mal. _

She stared at it. Was that it? Was that the secret she had kept hidden? That she had no way out? That this was all… this was all… everything they had done, everything she had created, their entire lives were a lie? This spinning top, the one that could never, ever fall, was that what it led to? A never-ending world that went on forever, stretching into eternity?

_Tu as un choix, Mal. _

She slammed the door closed, pressing her hands against its cold, smooth surface. No. This world had to be real. It had to. She and Dom… their entire existence here. It had to mean something. It had to.

Slowly, she opened the door again and stared at the top.

It still spun.

_Make your choice, Mal… there is only one way. _

Were those her words, or his? Had she imagined them? Were they even real?

In a place where she dictated what was true and what was not, how could she believe anything to be true?

The top still spun.

_Tu as un choix, Mal._

**30. Entwine**

Ariadne sat in a corner of her flat, staring at her phone. It was late in the afternoon; already the sky outside was beginning to turn pink, and the busy traffic of the Parisian streets below rang through her open window. She adjusted her position, lacing her fingers together and resting her chin on them as she contemplated the black-and-white plastic in front of her, her mind doubling back on her decision, still wandering the paths of possible outcomes, trying to decide what her future could possibly be like once she made that call.

It had been seven months since Inception. She had returned to Paris, continued her studies, and had graduated top of her class. The ceremony had been a week ago. She was still living in Paris, as she was uncertain of what to do next. Already, she had been contacted by several employers looking for someone to handle designs for buildings, but every contact's subject just seemed so dull. She had turned away three of them already, despite the good pay. Her friends and classmates had been appalled.

She hated to think of what her parents would say.

Ariadne chewed on a fingernail. "Okay," she muttered. "Okay. It's just a phone. It's not going to bite you."

It had been seven months since she had seen any of them. Well, she didn't expect to see Eames or Yusuf ever again (or Saito, for that matter – elite Japanese businessmen did not casually contact graduate architecture students), but she had thought she'd spotted Arthur about on a street one day a couple of months back. She had almost called out his name, but then he had disappeared – she remembered feeling disappointed. And Cobb… she doubted she would ever hear from him again, but she hoped that he had made it safely to his family, that he had been reunited with them and was on the way to mending a broken home.

Seven months. It was a long time, but even then, working with that team was not something you forgot easily. She had even wandered back to the workshop, only to find it securely locked. She doubted anyone had been inside it since the team had vacated it. She had been part of something special, and now it was just gone.

Ariadne stared at the phone.

The phone stared back at her.

She had years ahead of her where she could have any job – any architectural job she could think of, where she could spend her days doing what she loved best, but it was nothing compared to those long, drawn-out weeks spent planning, researching, creating, dreaming…

Dreaming. She had always been a bit of an airhead, always had her head in the clouds. Maybe that was what she did best.

She grabbed the phone and dialled.

"Yes? Professor Miles? Hi, yeah, it's Ariadne. I'm doing well, thanks. Yes, I'm still in Paris. Actually, I was wondering if you would be able to give me some help. I know what I want to do with my career. I know, I know what you're saying, but I promise you it's what I want to do. Legitimate or not, there's nothing else out there like it. The chances I've been given… it's pure creation. How could I ever give that up?"


	4. Chapter 4

"**mes chagrins, mes plaisirs, je n'ai plus besoin d'eux"**

**31. Masquerade**

Like the others on Dominic Cobb's crew, Eames was the best in his field. He could be anyone – man, woman, child, aristocrat, slum-dweller, mob boss, grandmother, businessman… or, in this case, architect.

It was years after the Inception job. He was working on his own – contract work, the best kind. Healthy, decent. His name was famous in the right circles, and even the wrong circles had some idea of who he was. It was a good situation to be in, and a bad one at the same time – good in that the right kind of people sought him out to pay a hell of a lot of money upfront for him to do what he did best; bad in that there were a lot of very rich men out there who wanted him dead because of those very same abilities.

So far, they had been mildly unsuccessful. One assassin had gotten a little too close for comfort some years back and, as a result, took part of his ear as a souvenir. Once it healed, Eames didn't mind. It was a battle scar.

The ladies were fascinated by battle scars and they were a signal to potential opponents that he was a survivor.

Win-win.

However, this new job certainly stretched what little moral code he had. He liked it – it was a challenge. A mental, physical and ethical challenge.

He was working for the other team now. His target?

Arthur.

His disguise?

Ariadne.

What a lark – to infiltrate his former colleague's mind in the shape of another former colleague, particularly one who was romantically attached to that first former colleague. Eames almost turned the job down out of respect for the pair, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. He was being well paid. He'd be rich enough to retire comfortably. Besides, part of his job was already complete: he knew about two third of what he needed to know, which was miles away from what he usually worked with at the start of each job. Arthur would be easy to trick, especially if he got Ariadne's mannerisms down correctly.

Easy enough. The girl was Canadian. They were a particularly unsubtle nation.

And so, Eames relished the job. He hadn't seen Arthur in years; nor had he seen Ariadne. If he was discovered during the dream, he would certainly be stuck in an interesting position.

"Not to worry, darling," he muttered as he scanned his files on the pair and gulped back a beer. "It's all in the name of business."

**32. Wallop**

Mal's death hit him like a knife to the gut – and that was a reliable simile to use, as Miles had experienced it more than once within a dream.

Dom had told him of the issues he and Mal were working through, but the last time Miles had seen his daughter, she seemed to be getting better. He should have known better. She had always been a tremendous actor. She could convince whomever she wanted to believe _what_ she wanted them to believe.

The afternoon after Mal took her leap of faith, Miles arrived at the morgue with his ex-wife. Marie slapped him when they met outside the building, but the sting was nothing compared to the accusatory look in her eyes.

_C'est ta faute! _

He could only stand there, allowing her to scream her fury at him, pummelling his chest with her hands.

_Tout ça c'est de ta faute!_

In his mind, he agreed with her. He should have tried harder. He should have realised there was something wrong. Dom always said that Mal had never been the same. Miles could remember with painful clarity the evening Dom had called, telling him that Mal had sliced her hand open with a knife – the results would have been much worse had he not caught her in time. He had taken her directly to the hospital and trusted the staff there to make sure no sharp objects came within reach.

After several psychological exams, they never believed him when he said she did it to herself. Throughout the entire ordeal, Mal never said a word – not in accusation, not in defence. Dom said she merely sat there, watching, listening, a pained, hurt look in her eyes.

In the moments between Marie's flurry of stinging words and the identification of their daughter's ruined body, Miles came to a realisation.

_Il n'y a rien que je pouvais faire. C'était son choix._

There had truthfully been nothing he could have done.

Marie did not believe him.

He hung his head, not in shame, but in defeat.

Let her think what she would. He had no hope of convincing her otherwise and it was futile to try.

_C'était son choix. _

**33. Belfry**

The tower was a thing of majesty. On the outside, the detailing was intense, deep, filled with an artistry that challenged even the greatest cathedrals of history. On the inside, it surpassed anything even the likes of Notre-Dame had to offer. Stained glass of hues that could never be achieved, gargoyles that were both terrifying and beautiful all at once, details that would take years of precision and talent to sculpt.

Like the gargoyles, it was a beautiful and terrifying place at the same time.

"You've really outdone yourself," Arthur said as they walked up the spiralling stone steps of the bell tower. Above them hung a heavy set of bells, standing at attention should someone pull the ropes to ring them. Even they were perfectly shaped – but they were never to be rung.

"Thanks," Ariadne said. "There's something about cathedrals. I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's how peaceful they can be, but at the same time they're magnificent monsters."

Arthur stopped walking. "Magnificent monsters?" he asked.

She crossed her arms. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, continuing up the stairs. "Just…" He stopped again. _"Magnificent monsters?" _he said again, turning around.

Ariadne shrugged. "If you have a problem with the way I describe stuff, then you better get used to it. I've done the calculations three times now and we're stuck here for forty-eight hours thanks to our useless friends."

Arthur winced. "Let's just hope that no projections programmed to kill come and find us here."

"That's the other good thing about cathedrals these days," Ariadne said. "No one expects you to hide out in them. Especially the bell tower."

"We're not exactly in the ordinary world, Ariadne. Dreams work by different worlds."

"Sure, but isn't the trick to make the target _think_ that the dream world works by the same laws as the real world?"

Arthur shook his head and took several more steps. "I can't win."

"Nope," Ariadne said cheerfully.

They continued on up the spiralling steps, climbing higher and higher until they were among the bells. As soon as he passed a window, Arthur stopped and looked out to make sure there were no projections gathering at the base of the cathedral.

Ariadne leaned against the wall, waiting for him. "Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm bored," she said. "Compliment my architecture again, would you?"

He turned around and eyed her darkly. "You're a right pain in the ass when you want to be, you know that?"

"Absolutely."

**34. Nimble**

Much of Mal's talent came from the ability to be quick of movement and of mind. She was like a cat – always landing on her feet, always absorbing in the finest details. As her experience grew, so did her abilities to sense the way dreams flowed. She became a navigator, able to dissect exactly how a specific target's mind would work and thus be capable of infiltrating even its deepest hid secrets as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It was one of the things he loved about her. Her talent, her stubborn persistence to get it right each time, and her insistence that she fix it each time she got it wrong. Her love of the ebb and flow of dreams, the way she saw the beauty within even the darkest nightmares.

Of course, it was one of the things he remembered so clearly about her. After her death, her memory emulated that personality, those talents, that stubbornness. His mind became a danger to himself, as thanks to his memories, Mal's projection was double the navigator the real Mal ever was.

And she continued to trip him up. To catch him. To bring him down before his enemies.

To execute him with her very own image, with the same question lingering hauntingly on her lips.

She was the ghost he could never kill. The ghost who would never leave him. The ghost who would continue her torturous question of "why – why – why?" even when he already knew that he could not give her an answer.

Not yet. He wasn't ready.

He would never be as ready as she had been in real life.

**35. Astute**

The girl an extraordinarily fast learner. She was very talented and gifted in this art, even going so far as to surpass anything Miles himself had created – or even Ariadne, his most gifted student. Phillipa was rapidly approached the area that had seduced Dom and Mal into further experimentation and exploration; Miles could only hope he could keep her out of it.

She was headstrong. She took many, many risks.

He hadn't had a student with this much potential and this much nerve since Ariadne, but at least Ariadne had understood the dangers. She had witnessed them herself when she worked alongside Dom.

Phillipa could not understand them. She had only trained – and trained extensively – but she truly needed to begin field work to keep her from going over the edge. Field work humbled the architect's mind; without it, an architect would believe anything to be possible. They would not see the dangers associated with their line of work.

Miles was torn. He didn't want to send his only granddaughter off to do unscrupulous work, but he also knew that she was in even graver danger if he did not.

After much deliberation, he picked up the phone and dialled a number.

"Arthur? Yes. I need your assistance as soon as possible – but with one stipulation. You must _not_, under any circumstances, allow Dom to know the identity of your new architect."

On the other end of the line, Miles heard Arthur's "huh" of understanding and – he hoped – agreement.

Events could quickly spiral out of control if not handled correctly. It was the usual consequence when any of Miles' relatives entered the field.

**36. Étude **

Ariadne did not want to wake up.

She knew she would eventually, but this was one dream in which she wished she could stay forever – partly for the joy and the pleasure, partly because she dreaded the embarrassment she would feel once she did wake.

She had sworn to herself that she would never become addicted to Somnacin and dream-sharing, as her colleagues had. She had joined this line of work to craft and design, not to become lost in the emotional knots that could be created and shared through the very same device.

_Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. _

She always knew it had been a bad decision to allow Arthur to kiss her once, in a dream. It had been the start of something – a memory of something that did not happen, but had happened, opening up a stream of possibilities for incorporeal events that, if they ever went wrong, could be argued never happened.

_Damn it!_

Four years. It had taken four years, but they eventually did cross each other's paths again. They eventually reunited on the same team – he, still working as a point man, she as the architect – and a flood of memories had brought them back to where they had previously been… directly on the cusp of something.

Ariadne had a pretty good idea what that something was, but it was all mixed up in this dream stuff.

Now it was even more mixed up.

She didn't know what they had done. No… she did know what they had done. She just couldn't tell what it meant. Was it real? Was it not real? Did it count? She had… they had… it was now all so confusing.

And part of her stubbornly said that she shouldn't mind. It had, after all, been exciting. And very pleasurable and very, very _good. _And many, many other things for which she couldn't think of the right adjectives for.

She felt herself going red.

_Stop it! Snap out of it!_

She sat still, wrapping Arthur's pinstriped shirt around her for modesty's sake because it was closer to her than her own clothes.

The bathroom door opened.

She turned around, catching his eye.

"You're wearing my shirt," he said.

Ariadne blinked. "That's all you have to say?"

He cocked his head. "Well, no, but that's the first thing that comes to mind."

Her eyes narrowed.

He paled. "Oops. Sorry, um…" He smacked a palm against his forehead. "That's not what I meant, not at all, sorry. I meant you look good in my… in my shirt! Yes, pinstripes suit you. Pun not intended," he added, looking to where the other discarded pieces of his suit lay on the floor.

Ariadne sighed, shaking her head, the flush finally leaving her cheeks. He was so… she didn't know. She was going to say adorable, but she knew from experience that no man ever took lightly to being called 'adorable'.

She stood up. "What happens when we wake up?" she asked.

He leaned against the doorframe, making a face. "Can I ask you out for coffee?" he said, his voice turning up in a wistful tone at the end of the question.

She stared flatly at him. "No."

"Damn. That's always my backup plan."

"You got us into this mess."

"I'm not sure if it's a mess—"

"Hell, it _is_ a mess!" Ariadne interrupted. "Arthur, we had sex in a dream. Sex. In. A. Dream. In a _shared_ dream. You look me in the eye and tell me that is not messed up—"

He suddenly crossed the room and kissed her. She stopped talking, melting into his arms, her heart pounding rapidly. Her body trembled and she kissed him back, pulling him close, her hands running down the length of his back, her fingers tingling at the touch of his smooth skin—

"No," she said, pulling back just enough to speak, "I don't think—"

"Sorry," he said, releasing her. He ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean—" he started.

"Well, I didn't mean, either—" she said at the same time.

"Sorry, you go first, I can wait—"

"No, no, I just—"

"No, Ariadne, you go first, I—"

"Oh, shut up, Arthur," she said finally, stopping the influx of interrupted sentences. She kissed him again, pressing her lips to his with an ardour she couldn't believe could exist anywhere but in a dream. "You are being too adorable for your own good."

He paused. "Adorable?" he murmured against her lips.

"Absolutely," she said, pulling him close once more.

She couldn't help herself. Once they woke, she decided, they would deal with the consequences of this very, very bizarre arrangement.

**37. Vein**

Marie would never be able to trust him again. He understood; he bore her no ill for that sentiment. But what he could not stand for was her insistence that he give custody of the children over to her.

He had been cleared of all charges. He had his life returned to him. He could see Phillipa and James again – freely. No more phone calls late at night, no more gifts sent via their grandfather. He could be in their lives again, and he intended to fulfill his duties to them as a father.

Marie had other things in mind.

She was prepared to take him to court over their disagreement; if it came to that, he was going to fight tooth and nail to keep his children with him. But then Miles flew to America to act as an intermediary between his ex-wife and his son-in-law – his words stung both of them as he told them he did not think Mal would want to see her husband and her mother fighting over her own children.

Marie had a few choice words for Miles, including ones that vehemently stated that she did not believe Miles had the right to speak for Mallorie.

However, Miles said he did. Mal was their daughter, but he had taught her from the beginning. He was the reason she had met Dom; and perhaps, yes, he was also at the beginning of the reason she had taken her own life, as Marie believed. But that meant that he understood her unlike no one else, save perhaps Dom.

He asked Marie one simple question – did she truly believe that Mal wanted her children to grow up without their father?

In the end, Marie gave in.

Dom was forever thankful for Miles' words. He owed the man so much more than Miles probably ever knew. However, Dom had also made a decision – he would not be the same father to Phillipa and James as Miles had been to Mal. He would keep his children away from his work, at all costs.

The dream world was one that he did not want his children falling to, after the pain it had caused their family.

As they grew older, Dom began to realise that Phillipa would never have listened to him anyway. She was far too headstrong and stubborn to believe the influx of warnings her father gave her whenever she asked about the secrets of dreaming.

**38. Mortality**

Saito had discovered death.

He knew what it was to fear it, to taste it, to feel life seeping away from a broken, bleeding body. Even though it had happened within a dream, he could remember the plunging bullet and the pain and the numbness that followed as clearly as any memory from the waking world.

Death was not the greatest thing he feared.

Old age was. He was scarred from his trip within the multi-levelled dream world – scarred for the rest of his life. He had been trapped within limbo for years, growing forever older, but unable to die, surrounded by fabrications of his own mind until one man pushed in deep enough to pull him out.

It was the last time he would ever take such a journey – he swore it. He had seen enough of the horrors men employed on each other to pursue their enemies' deepest secrets. He had experienced enough of the dangers.

Every day when he looked in the mirror and saw his aging face, he remembered those moments lost in a spiral of eternal old age and decay. He hoped to never confront such a thing again.

He would rather die before it came for him.

He did not fear death. All men were mortal. All men could be broken. Riches and money protected none; they were all one and the same, when the end chose to come for them.

**39. Narcissist**

"I have a hypothesis for you," Arthur said, leaning back in his chair and taking a swig of beer.

"Oh, really?" Eames said, not looking up from his files. "And what kind of hypothesis would that be?"

"I know… why you'ra forgger," Arthur said. His words were becoming slurred. Eames smiled, his eyes flickering to his friend. Arthur was always a lot more fun once he became drunk.

"To tell."

"You'ra pretty man, Eames," Arthur said, tilting his head back for more beer. "Pretty men like teh look at themselves in teh mirror."

"Is that right?" Eames said. "I am a pretty man."

"Yesh… you awr!" He stood up and accidentally tripped over his chair, catapulting face-first onto the floor.

"But if your hypothesis were true, my friend," Eames continued, "then why would I ever trade this oh-so-very chiselled jaw of mine for the squat face and grey hair of Peter Browning, hm?" He downed part of his own glass, smacking his lips.

Arthur tried to stand up, but fell over. He raised a shaking finger and pointed at Eames. "'Cause yawr mind don't work right," he said, placing the same shaking finger to his own temple.

Arthur promptly passed out.

Eames chuckled.

The door opened. Ariadne entered; her earphones were in and she was humming to herself. She stopped halfway across the room and took note of the unconscious Arthur and the now madly laughing Eames.

"All right," she said, pulling out her earphones and fixing Eames with a glare. "What did you give him this time?"

"A little something I mixed up myself," Eames said, reaching for another file. "Why, would you like to try it?"

"I think I'll pass," she said.

"Fine by me," Eames said before bursting into another round of raucous laughter.

**40. Ghoul**

When Phillipa went under into her first dream, she thought she saw her mother.

She only knew her mother from pictures, of course, but she had heard stories of what she had been like. Dad always had the strangest look on his face whenever he talked about her. Grandfather was the same. Grandmother only looked sad.

And so, Phillipa could not figure out why Mum would try to infiltrate her dreams. But there she was, clear as day, mixed in with the milling projections. Whenever she walked along a street or over a bridge or through a garden, Mum was there, silently watching for a moment before turning away.

Once, Phillipa tried to follow her, but she lost her in the crowd. Other times, she tried to speak to her, but Mum would always leave before she could get close.

It was just her imagination, nothing more. Phillipa knew that. Her imagination was playing games on her, because she secretly wished that she had had a proper conversation with her mother. A childhood had been denied to her because of her parents' decisions.

She wanted some of that back.

So, she continued to follow her mother within her dreams, even though she knew it was a dangerous game to play, one that could easily snap back on her, as it had her father. Phillipa spoke of it to no one – not Dad (he didn't know she was studying and would be appalled to find out she was), not Grandfather (who would take away her privileges if he knew), not anyone (who else could she talk to? She knew no one in the field).

Her heart hoped that she would find her mother, find that missing part of her she so sorely longed to see… but at the same time, her mind feared what she would find if she ever got close enough. Would it truly be Mum, or would it merely be a mad, fanatic impression of her, as Dad had found within his own mind?

It was difficult to say. Dreams were so fickle, they could play along just as rapidly as they could turn on you.

Phillipa crossed her fingers every night that she would stay on the right side of the danger, though the darkest part of her secretly hoped to find out what happened when you encountered those mysterious spirits that inhabited the deepest sections of your mind.


	5. Chapter 5

"**non, je ne regrette rien"**

**41. Capriccio**

Mallorie was stunning at twenty-one. She had a certain grace about her, a certain poise which extended from the way she moved to the way she spoke in not one, but two languages. She never thought herself as particularly gorgeous – at least, not in the way that people considered women to be beautiful. Like most women, she had her own private criticisms about her appearance.

That did not stop her from being comfortable in her own skin, and that was what got her noticed.

Close friends knew better than to ask her out; they knew she was not looking for a relationship. She was working far too closely on her father's projects (whatever they may be) to concentrate on a relationship outside of her trade. However, strangers at bars and clubs felt free to ask her – she always politely declined, and if they were a little too insistent, she would insist right back that she was not interested.

And it was the truth. She wasn't interested. Twenty-one years old and she had never been on a proper date. She had too much on her mind; too much creativity, too much fascination with the dream world. She had never had time for a relationship – never.

She did wonder what it would be like, though. Sometimes she cursed herself for being so stubborn; one day, she promised herself she would give some poor man a chance, just to see what would happen. It was partially out of curiosity, but mostly out of desire to see what it felt like. Despite her love for her art, she thought there was nothing quite like the love of one human being for another.

Eventually, she did want to experience it.

Just not quite yet – not quite yet. She had much work to do – so much to create, so much to explore. Her passion drove her, refusing to be caught up in anything unrelated to it.

That evening, she met Dominic Cobb.

**42. Scallywag**

He was very young and intense when she first met him. He insisted on working late into the night, working right through until all creative output he had from the course of the day ran dry. Each field had the kind of person who would insist on doing no wrong, on going by the book, and Dominic was the one for the dream worlds.

For the most part.

Once she coaxed his creative side, he suddenly didn't care for her father's rules quite as much. Though her father was his guide and mentor, Dom felt quite free to create his own guidelines for exploration, as long as he was talked into doing so. That became Mal's job. She recognised that his mind could potentially be quite as stunning as her father's – perhaps even surpassing him.

And no one surpassed her father.

It intrigued her. She wanted to see how far they could go together, to explore new dimensions, new heights, see where the dream world could take them. Delve as deep into the human mind as they could.

It was there that the secrets lay.

She just needed to convince him that it was the right thing to do.

Fortunately or unfortunately, that was the easy part.

**43. Jackal**

It had been several years since she began working with Dom when she made her first contacts in the black market.

She did so out of curiosity; she had long since heard of their prowess in the dream world, of the way they dared to go where no one had dreamed of going before. It was perfectly logical – these men and women worked on the black market. They infiltrated other people's minds with the intention of stealing their secrets. They were, at a very base level, thieves.

And she would freely talk with these thieves, if only to provide herself with information they had gleaned from their exploits.

Dom didn't think it was a good idea. He did not want to associate himself with the black market, even if it was only for information – and once they did, there was no turning back. They would be marked forever by people in the right circles. On the other hand, he agreed that they could not progress much further on their own without expanding their knowledge base.

They quarrelled. It was one of their first major arguments.

In the end, Mal convinced him to come to her side. She usually won, in the end.

**44. Hide**

She had always been attracted to him; from the moment she first saw him, she had been attracted. It had something to do with the look in his eyes, the passion with which he spoke, the way his hands clutched a pen when he was sketching out ideas on paper. And she knew he loved her, too. It was there, in the way he spoke softly to her over the table, in the way he held her hand as they went under, in the way he smiled at her when they returned.

But he was her partner – she couldn't jeopardize that relationship. Out of love for the work they shared, she couldn't. There was too much at stake.

Then one evening, after they returned from the dream world they had created, they were sitting together in Mal's living room, a bottle of wine opened on the table, discussing what they had seen, what they had explored, the full extent of the world they had created. They were experimenting with projections; seeing how far one could taunt them before they began to swarm and attack the dreamer.

Mal clinked her glass with his and smiled as she took a drink. He was looking at her, a familiar fondness in his gaze. She lowered the glass and asked him what he was thinking.

_Je crois que je t'aime._

She froze at his words, uncertain of what to say or how to react. The simplest thing to do was to smile and back out, but she found herself not wanting to do that. How long had been that she had denied herself this? How long had it been since she had begun to desire something more out of life?

How long had it been since she had first desired _him?_

There was no more hiding. She couldn't do it anymore; her wants and desires had changed. Her life wasn't solely about the dream world anymore – it was about him.

And by God, she would show him just that.

Mal set the glass aside and shifted forward across the couch, pressing her lips against his in the hungry kiss they had been denying themselves for three years.

**45. Code**

He asked her to marry him with the promise they would grow old together, living to see and create new worlds.

She cried when he presented her the ring. It was something she had never dreamed would happen – she had always been too much of an outsider to the rest of the world to think that she would ever be married. But Dom was different. He was hers, as much as she was his. Nothing had ever felt more right than when she was with him.

And she knew he felt the same way.

She never gave him a verbal answer – she couldn't find the words, in either language. Instead, she had pulled him up, put her arms around him and kissed him.

It was all the answer he needed.

**46. Syllable**

Their wedding ceremony was private – a small event, with only their closest friends and family members. Mal had wanted it to be as personal as she could make it, and so they chose her parents' Paris backyard garden as the location.

She couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day.

Having been born to a bilingual family, Mal was insistent that she keep with the family tradition. Dreams were her trade, but words were just as important and beautiful to her. And so, they wrote their own vows in both English and French.

Later in her life, her wedding was one of the most perfect of her numbered days. Unfortunately, later in life she couldn't be certain that it had happened exactly as she remembered it.

**47. Ribbon**

She almost gave up on dreams entirely when she fell pregnant.

This was something no dream world could ever create. While the dreams were addictive and their exploration rewarding, nothing gave her such a strong sense of fulfillment as giving birth. Here was something to which nothing else could compare – the creation of a child. A new life. A precious life.

Her Phillipa.

She cried when she was born. After hours of intense labour (wherein Dom claimed she nearly broke his hand), Mal clutched her daughter to her breast, filled with such joy that she felt her life was complete in this moment.

Only a few years later, her James was born.

Their daughter and their son – their children.

As she watched them grow up, she knew she would do anything for them. Anything at all – but the pull of the dream world was too much for both her and Dom. Eventually, despite her father's warnings, they returned to their exploration and experimentation, even as their small children rested in the rooms above.

**48. Huff**

They began to argue.

Dom's obsession with exploration and creation was greater than hers; her thoughts still remained with the children and she was more hesitant to return to the work she loved. She claimed it was because _she_ had born the children, not he – though of course that automatically brought on the argument that she could not possibly love the children more than he simply because she was their mother.

In those later days, it was one of their predominant arguments.

Their roles had reversed. At first, she did not realise it, but eventually it dawned on her. Before their marriage, she had been the one insisting on further and deeper exploration of dreams. She had converted him to that line of thought; she was responsible for the opinions he held about dreams. She had made Dom the man he was today, the man who argued incessantly with her about which was more important – the children or the dreams.

Eventually, they both agreed that both were equally important.

And so they came to a truce. They would explore only at night, only on certain days of the week. Otherwise, they would spend their time with their children.

Or so Mal believed – her memories of that time were blurred and indistinct. It had not been long after that they both fell into limbo and became trapped.

**49. Overwhelm**

She knew which world was real. She could always tell. She was familiar enough that even though the world tried to trick her, she could see past it.

That was what she told herself.

That was how she knew the world she inhabited was false. Her children were false. Her friends and family were false. Her husband, however, was not false. He was just as trapped as she was, and it was her duty to make him see that.

He shook his head, insisting that they were back in reality now. She argued, throwing her hands in the air, fighting back against his insistence. How could this world be real?

The top still spun, when she laid her eyes on it.

Or so she thought.

Once, she tried to take Phillipa and James away from him, to coax him into admitting that they were still trapped in limbo.

He stopped her.

She threw a kitchen knife at him.

She hadn't meant to. It barely grazed him and there was very little blood, but even then the act horrified her. She allowed herself to be taken to three different psychiatrists, just to please him. All three verified that she was sane.

More proof that this was, indeed, the false world.

She tried to take her own life more than once, but each time something stopped her. At first, it was the images of her children – her Phillipa, her James – scattered about their home. She would see their faces and forget that they were not her real children; they were her dream children. If she wanted to see them again, she would have to kill herself and escape this false reality.

But she couldn't do it without Dom. She loved him. Despite the heated arguments, despite the growing distrust, despite everything that had come to pass between them, she loved him. She couldn't go without him, she couldn't leave without making sure he would follow.

She needed him to be there with her.

Then, one morning, she woke up with a very distinct plan in mind. A plan that would convince Dom to come with her. A plan that would allow them to escape this reality together.

It would work. She knew it would. She had faith in it.

All she had to do was wait for their anniversary.

**50. Harbinger**

She sat on the window ledge of the hotel, dangling her feet over the busy street many stories below. Her shoe fell, plummeting towards the ground a dizzying distance away, and she felt almost giddy.

She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her body. It was always like this in a dream, moments before taking her own life to escape. It was dizzying, intoxicating, and fatally enthralling.

Dom was yelling, pleading with her from across the way. He was half-way out the window, ready to follow her when she jumped. All she could do was smile back. She had made her peace with this false world. It was time to escape it; and he would follow it.

She was certain – even though Dom was still convinced this world was real.

Part of her mind, very, very far away, held the distant thought that he could, potentially, be right. It was possible that she could have tricked herself into thinking that the real world was false, and the false world was real. Human longing was fickle; it could be manipulated in many ways as the mind was an extraordinary thing. Love could be created and destroyed, all within a dream. All within something that did not truly exist.

But what was existence? The mere fact that it was real, solid and tangible, or the fact that one _thought_ it was real, solid and tangible?

Such was thoughts for philosophers and scholars. She would not be troubled by them. Mal knew where her opinion lay; she knew this world was the false reality. She would escape it. She would escape it with her husband, and they would return to their true children.

She believed it with all her heart.

She looked across the way at Dom, sensing his panic, his despair and he desperately continued to plead with her. She smiled, pressing her hands into the cold stone of the window sill.

_Follow me, my love. Je t'adore. Notre place n'est pas ici. _

_It's with our children. Our family. Our home. _

She closed her eyes, feeling the wind in her hair. Dom's voice faded, overtaken by the pure drive of life rushing through her.

_C'est la joie de vivre. _

She leapt.

_fin_

* * *

**A/N:** And that, lovely folks, is the end. I hope you enjoyed this series of ficlets; they were a lot of fun to write and to explore different situations from different places along the Inception timeline. The characters of this film are a blast to write and I'm thinking of doing some more Inception stories in the future – but probably not as stylistically experimental as this fic here.

Thanks to all of you who are reading!

~Idrelle


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